Number One Zero
by BelieveItOrIReen
Summary: Divided and reunited. Add time. Subtract color. Carry the remainder, carry a torch. Factors, figures... Edward loves equations, Bella loves expression. They think they know themselves; they think they know each other. But there is always more to learn. "We are what we imagine ourselves to be. "
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **

BelieveItOrNot plus IReen H equals BelieveItOrIreen.

PreRead by Thimbles

Beta'd by Songster51

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all recognizable characters.

IReen H and BelieveItOrNot own this plot and any other non-Twilighty details.

* * *

_I will never leave your side_

_Though you call me your number one zero_

_your nevermind_

_I'll be your king, I'll be your pawn_

_I will build a pedestal and put you upon it_

~Number One Zero by Audioslave

Bella.

He can see her through the window.

Her back is to him, wild hair gathered into a knot at her nape, the tips sticking out like spider's legs. She kneels before the big blackboard—pulled from its hooks above—chalking out the daily specials.

His heart trips.

His palms sweat.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out, reminds himself that he's known her since he was six.

She puts a flourish on the L at the end of _Bella's Breakfast Bagel_, before turning toward the front door when the chime sounds. Bella's body stiffens and she steps woodenly to the side, her foot hitting the basket of chalk, knocking it over. Her arm comes up, arcing overhead, body bent to gather her balance.

"Edward. Good morning. You, uh … You want mint, this morning?" That she's jittery with nerves and blushing a bright pink relaxes him somewhat. He isn't the only one unsure of how to behave this morning.

Turning toward the counter, she hefts back the partition, and positions herself so the cash register is between them. She looks drawn, her smile stiff, as her gaze dances between his collar and his still-clammy hands, which Edward crams into his pockets.

"Yes, please." He swallows. "What's on the bagel?" He woke up ravenous.

"Two eggs, pepper-jack, turkey bacon, and avocado. Or, you might prefer the Mitzvah. Cream cheese, lox, capers, cucumbers. Or you could have-"

"Bella..." He runs his fingers through his hair, not sure how to begin. "In regard to - I mean, concerning..." He clears his throat. "Um, about last night-"

Her eyes fall closed as she squeezes the sides of her apron, leaving smears of chalk dust when she lets go.

Like the smears of watermelon all over his sleeve last night, her sticky fingers pinching his shirt.

…

The keg had been empty for a while. Bella had sent some guys to the gas station to get more beer, but she, derelict in her self-preservation, was eating vodka-soaked watermelon with a melon baller. Sometimes, when she laughed, Edward could see the juice inside the corners of her mouth. The watermelon and her gums matching in shade. Both enticing in his own state of intoxication.

Resting an elbow on Edward's shoulder, legs pulled up beneath her on the sofa, she let go of his sleeve. "No. You can't say that Axl Rose was the greatest frontman ever. That's just. Preposterous. What about Freddie Mercury? Or..." she pointed the melon baller at him. "Three words. David. Lee. Roth."

Edward laughed, pulling the utensil from her hand. "Should you be eating that? How much beer have you had?"

She waved her hand at him. "Hardly any."

But she was slurring.

"Besides. I'm just... Mostly I'm just happy that you're back. In Berkeley. Why didn't we keep in touch?" She reached for the melon baller, her cold fingers holding his, not taking it.

He shrugged a shoulder and tried to think. His mind was frustratingly foggy, the only things clear to him in that moment were the movement of Bella's lips, her fingers on his, the ruckus around them, and the absolute fact that David Lee Roth was not the best frontman ever.

And he was sort of pondering the area beneath the curve in a continuous function, A of x. The area may not be known, but the function is.

Slope of a line, slope of a breast. Almost, almost touching his arm where they sat on the rotted red sofa. Continuously inching closer than they'd ever been. She looked up at him, her eyes a gossamer glow. Her cheeks colored, the tiniest bit under each eye.

She was flushed.

Was he staring? Had she asked him something?

He shook his head, tensing his brow in an attempt to focus. "I don't know. Why didn't we?"

She released him, and as if forgetting about the utensil he held, plucked at the watermelon with her fingertips, short paint-chipped nails, matching the hue of her Chucks, the sole flapping on one side. Her bare shoulder—sun-kissed and spattered with light summer freckles—rose to her ear. She held the pose and smiled at him. "Oh well, right? We're here, now."

The breath was thin in his lungs. Thin and a little too warm. He wanted to reach and touch the thick swath of bang that fell over one eye, the only section of hair that wasn't knotted into thick, well-made dreadlocks. But he kept his hand still.

They looked at each other, long; something between them shifting, settling. His guarded desire to touch her, he could feel the moment she became aware of it, the moment she shared it.

The moment she moved, climbing onto his lap. Him, helping her, gripping her hip as she swung her leg over his. And then he was tasting her, her mouth fresh and vibrant, sliding easily against his. The drum in his chest amplified, he pulled on her waist, leaning back under the press of her kiss, smelling the spark of her skin, her perspiration mixed with the citrus of her lotion. He felt the couch underneath him—still, solid—the folds of her skirt pleating under the clutch of his fingers.

The spin of the room around them.

She whispered against his lips. "I'm sorry. I … I'm drunk and making poor decisions."

"It's okay." The blood burned in his neck. "So am I."

...

His neck burns again now. He reaches for the back of it, grips tight.

"Edward, look. It's no big deal."

She looks terrified. Can she really regret it that much? By no means did Edward consider it his best performance. In fact, if anyone should be embarrassed this morning it's him. The look on Bella's face suggests otherwise.

"No ... big deal? Really?" He leans forward, pushing his fingers along the cool chrome counter. Toward her.

"Really." She takes a step back. "I mean. We've known each other practically forever. Physical intimacy is just another state of being. When you think about it. I mean. We've touched each other plenty of times. Do you want a for-here cup, or to-go?" She rests her hand on the stack of paper to-go cups, as if suggesting which he should choose.

"So, wait. What are you saying?"

"Well, it would be a shame if a different state of existence—you know—messed up… a really good, long… friendship. Right? Did you want the bagel?"

His heart has turned from helium to nickel. Blood pumps like mercury in his veins. There's no way he can eat anything.

She thinks it was a mistake.

_Fuck._

_..._

It was here in Jake's Coffee House, two weeks earlier, Edward's second day back in Berkeley, that he first recognized Bella. He might've noticed her sooner if not for the August sun shooting through wide windows, ricocheting off the polished wood floor, the chrome chairs, the countertops, burning his eyes to a squint. Nearby patrons were sliding sunglasses down from their heads to rest on noses. Edward started grabbing for his own sunglasses tucked into the vee of his shirt, just as the line moved forward and he stepped into shadow.

It was her hand that had caught his attention.

No, the bend of her wrist. An animated speaker, she'd often held her wrist that way as she gestured, as if holding a paintbrush, waiting to add that final touch to canvas. Her wrist would go one way and her head would tilt opposite.

He blinked consciously as if he might blink the sight away. _Ridiculous, it couldn't be._

But it was, he realized, as his gaze scaled her arm, past her apron strap, the slender line of her neck, to her face.

Her face, still round, but less so; lips, fuller and darker than he remembered; eyes like a black and tan, light brown on the inside surrounded by dark. Those eyes, no question. Those eyes.

As a child, and later as an adolescent, he'd spent hours, days—well, months, if he totaled the time—simply memorizing her eyes.

Approaching the counter, he decided he wouldn't say anything. He'd wait to see if she recognized him.

She'd taken his order without looking up, punching the proper buttons on the register.

"Name?"

He didn't answer right away.

"Your name?" She looked at him.

His mouth opened and closed before his name took shape and sound. "Edward."

Her eyes narrowed; those darker, fuller lips pursed in surprise before parting into a smile. She hoisted herself up and climbed over the counter. Standing in front of him with her hands on his shoulders, she looked up into his eyes. Was it possible she still smelled the same? Sun-heated skin mixed with her grandma's laundry detergent? Or was this his overactive mind filling in memories for him?

"Oh, my God. Edward Masen!"

She jumped up and threw her arms around his neck, sending him stumbling back a couple of steps, forcing him to brace himself on the edge of a chair. He circled his arms around her waist and squeezed—squeezed in surprise of running into her like this, and in relief that she'd recognized him after all this time.

Years and years it had been. In a blink he'd done the math. It had been eight years since he'd last laid eyes on Bella Swan. It had been eight years, two months, one week, and four days since the last time he'd held her in his arms. He remembered the exact day, his eighth grade graduation. She'd just finished seventh grade, no reason to be at the graduation other than the fact that he'd asked her to come. When she'd congratulated him, she'd hugged him.

Something poked at his shoulder, digging into his flesh through his T-shirt. "What is that?" He asked as they both stepped back.

Chin to chest she looked down. "I made it." She took the pin off her apron and, palm open, pushed it toward his face.

It was a pair of high heel shoes twisted from wire, and on the pointed toes, tiny copper wristwatch gears as eyes with black dots of paint as pupils.

"Do you like it?"

Before he could answer, she started pinning it to his shirt. "It's yours."

He stretched his shirt from his chest, peering down at these ladies' shoes with eyes that were now pinned to him. He frowned at her.

"I call them _Windows to Your Sole._" Lifting her leg, she pointed to the bottom of her shoe. "Not soul, you know? It's a play on words."

She looked up at him in a way that made him forget about the pin hanging askew from his shirt. He tried to make out her expression; was it surprise or awe?

"Wow. You are so … tall. What are you doing here? Isn't your dad still in Redding?"

He'd seen his dad since he'd been back in California, but only once. His life was easier when he didn't have to answer pointless questions about his mother, or defend her, which he did, every time, despite agreeing with Edward Sr.

"Yeah, he is. I'm - I'm at Cal."

Her eyes went round. "No way!"

"Yeah. I actually. I wondered if you were still here. If you'd gone away to school or what."

She waved her hand. "Nope. I don't think I could leave. You know? I don't really know anything about anywhere else. So what was Washington like?"

"Bella!" A dark-haired man behind the counter gestured to the line and raised his hands as if to say, "Why aren't you working?"

"I'm taking my ten," she said, and then to Edward, "Grab us a table; I'll get your _tea_."

Selecting a table for two near a window, Edward drew the shade down low enough to block the glare of the sun.

He took his seat, glancing around the cafe: strangers everywhere. Maybe it had all been a daydream. Maybe Bella Swan hadn't just had her arms around his neck, pinned a pair of shoes to his shirt, turned from him with what looked like dreadlocks hanging out from under her headscarf.

_Dreadlocks?_

His iced tea hit the table in front of him with a loud clank and before he could lift his head to look at Bella, she touched his face with cold, damp fingers, turning him until their eyes met.

"Are you real?"

"I was just asking myself the same thing about you," he said.

She tickled his face near his ear. "You're scruffy. I can't believe you have scruff, Edward. I mean, wow."

Withdrawing her hand, Bella sat across from him and all he could do was stare. Words were lost to him. Where to start? Should he ask a question? Luckily she spoke first.

"We haven't seen each other in, like, six years."

"Eight."

"Eight years. Tell me something about me you can't believe." She smiled, turning her neck until her chin touched her raised shoulder. A gesture she's made since he's known her.

He couldn't believe she was sitting right there smiling at him for one thing, or that seconds ago she'd been touching his face. He rubbed his jaw with his palm. His stubble really was scratchy.

"I can't believe..." he started, but unable to meet her eyes any longer, he looked down at his tea, "you have dreadlocks."

Her laugh, sounding more like her twelve-year-old giggle, brought his eyes back to hers.

"Do you like them? Or do you think they're weird? You probably think they're weird, don't you? I like them. People who don't have them don't understand. They think they're dirty or something." She scrunched her nose. "I don't know. But when you have them, you know. They like... free you, in a way, or help you find your own freeness inside of you. That's it. Because-"

"Bella, I like them. They suit you. You always had knots in your hair, anyway. Now they're just intentional."

"Nice." She gave his hand a light slap. "You should grow some."

Smiling, he shook his head, searching his mind for a change of subject. He could probably be persuaded to grow dreadlocks if she pushed for it hard enough.

"What's your major?" He took his first gulp of tea, the ice already melting, diluting the flavor.

"I'm a barista-slash-cashier-slash-working stiff. And an artist. Not a starving one. Because I'm keeping my day job. At the moment."

"An art major?"

"Art major?" Her laugh was light, accompanying a slight headshake, her nose delicately squinched. "You can label me that if you want, but I don't go to school."

"You graduated?'

"No. I - I never went to college. I go to workshops every once in a while on campus, and I like the bookstore. That's about all the college I get."

Eyeing his glass, Edward turned it in his hands. Condensation ringed the tabletop, but his mind acknowledged none of that. "Sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?"

He looked at her and sat back in his seat, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Yeah, that's just awful. I'm _so_ insulted that you assumed I was smart enough to be a student at Cal." She reached over to his hand curved around the glass and squeezed his fingers. "It was a _compliment_. I should be thanking you."

He turned his hand to grasp her fingers back, but she was already pulling away.

Bending over his drink, he stuck the straw in his mouth and slurped some tea down just to dosomething.

"But you. I bet you're studying math. Grad school by now."

"And philosophy."

"Philosophy and math? Strange combination."

Edward shook his head. "Not really." He thought of his favorite philosopher, his inspiration and his introduction to philosophy. "_It is not good enough to have a mind; the main thing is to use it well_."

"I get it. You use your mind better than most. You always have."

"No," he said, his cheeks heating. "I was quoting Descartes. He was a philosopher and a mathematician."

"Right." A hand to her temple, she shook her head. "I should've caught that."

The man from behind the counter tapped his finger on their table and then on his watch. Without a word he walked away.

Bella huffed after him, blowing her bangs from her face. "Guess I should get back."

Edward stood, pushing his chair out. It seemed too soon. They'd barely had a chance to get reacquainted.

On her way to the front, she turned. "You should come over tonight. Whenever. Same house on Prince. I'll be around."

…...

Bella's house no longer looked like a castle to Edward the way it had when they were kids. In fact, it looked small. And it was brown, which Edward loves. Brown is a color he'd always been able to understand. Like Bella's hair, her eyes.

One of the lions guarding the front door was missing a paw.

That small degradation felt huge inside him. A small thing protracted large; the withering and wasting that comes to all things, no matter how seemingly permanent. The lions are stone, but even stone melts—in its own way.

_We are all transitory. To the universe._

He shifted the bag of Chinese food to one arm and knocked. The door moved, opening. It hadn't been closed all the way.

He peered into the dark foyer, catching Bella bounding down the stairs, reaching for the door to pull it wide. She wore black plastic-framed glasses; her shirt dipped off one shoulder, the neckline loose, sleeves wide. Her head was no longer covered, dreads hanging like long, thin ropes over her shoulders, unknotted bangs tucked behind an ear.

"You don't close your door?"

"Relax. I just got home. I was carrying paper."

Edward frowned. Paper kept her from closing the door?

"When did you paint?" He gestured to the house.

"It's been a while now. We had it painted before Gram died."

"What?" He took her arm, Esme's face flashing through his mind. Her graying reddish-brown curls, a smile. A big one, creasing her wrinkles deeper. Even back then, eight years ago. "When?" The bag of food seemed to grow heavier, the smell suddenly overly aromatic. Greasy in his nostrils and his mind, making him slightly ill. His stomach churned. "How?"

"About three years now. After graduation. It was a stroke. Didn't see it coming."

"Bella." He loosened his hold on her arm, rubbing her skin with his fingers. He should say something. What should he say? His tongue felt swollen.

"No. No, it's okay." She shook her head, smiling, but her eyes, even behind glasses... something had changed in them.

She turned away from him.

Edward followed her inside. The dark stairwell brought a wave of memories. Nostalgia was thick there, almost brutal. It even smelled the way he remembered it. Candle wax, fresh coffee, the faint choke of turpentine.

"You still live upstairs?"

"Yeah. My roommate, Em, lives downstairs. Carlisle lives wherever."

"Carlisle?"

"_Mister_ Carlisle to his face. He's very sensitive about that kind of thing. You'd never know I found him behind Jake's. Meowing his face off for scraps. He's such a gentleman now."

Mr. Carlisle was curled in a black ball on the same big dining room table from when they were kids—long, almost long enough that you could see a king and queen dining on either end, a candelabra tall between them. Esme always kept it freshly oiled, the intricately carved legs free of dust. Now it was draped in a sheet on top of which was a thick stack of architectural plans and mechanical drawings.

Edward set down the Chinese food, and fingered the corners of the drawings.

"What are these for?"

Bella had her back to him as she dropped her satchel in the window seat, checking her phone and plugging it in. "Hmmm? Oh!"

She skipped over to Edward and he smiled. He knew all about the private school she'd attended until she was seven. They didn't allow running. The rules required skipping or galloping only. When she first started at Malcolm X, she was the only kid to be seen skipping everywhere; her head bobbing as she tried to evade the other kids in games of tag. Or down the hallways when she was late. Skip, skip.

He liked that she still did it.

"You know contractors make copies of plans for all their subs? Like electrical and plumbing and roofers... they all get copies of the entire set of drawings. You know what they do when the job is done?"

"Toss 'em?"

She smiled. "Look at all this paper. FREE paper!"

"But, you can't really do anything with it, can you?" The corners were all mangled, in some places the contractor's highlighter or Sharpie had bled through, staining the backside.

"I'll show you. Come on. I want to introduce you to Alice."

"Another roommate? Or is it a cat?"

"Neither. Just come on."

She led him into her old room across from the kitchen. The place where they used to play Nintendo or Mousetrap, and where they would sprawl across Bella's unmade bed and flip through books. The teal futon, still there, was folded up into a couch, some of the old homemade pillows remaining.

Every inch of the walls were covered in comics, cut-outs, lyrics from CD inserts, quotes, pictures of animals. The ceiling looked like an upside down circus tent, fabric of all shades and texture billowing from the seam of wall to the center. Work-tables and shelving all around him, big speakers huddled in one corner, where there used to be a coat-tree slung with scarves and hats.

"So… is Alice - the _room itself_?" He pointed to the floor.

She just grinned.

"Is it a Wonderland reference... or the hallucinogenic?"

"Does the room remind you of an acid trip, Edward?" She sounded hopeful.

Edward shrugged, not really wanting to admit he'd never had the experience. But he was sure Bella could tell. In any case, she relieved him of having to answer. "Anyway. Isn't it one and the same?"

He walked over to the paint-splattered wooden easel in the corner of the room opposite the speakers. The canvas resting on it was a self-portrait of Bella painting on an easel. She was in overalls, her back to the viewer, her hand holding aloft a brush, bent at that angle—so peculiarly her.

"That's so I can remember that inspiration doesn't hold the power. I do."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, if I'm not feeling inspired, that's no excuse not to create. I just have to do it. Inspiration follows, just like Alice following her curiosity. Following her rabbit."

"It reminds me of M.C. Escher, drawing his own hand, drawing his own hand-"

She nodded, pointing to the exact piece glued to the wall, partially covered by an ad showing a rabbit with tiger stripes. "Drawing hands."

The cat joined them in the room, stretching a paw before rubbing against Edward's leg. "_Mister _Carlisle, is it?" he asked, bending down to give the cat's chin a scratch. Mr. Carlisle began a deep purr.

"He already likes you."

"Great. My second friend in town."

"Come here, come here, sit down." Grasping Edward's wrist, Bella led him to a swivel stool, pushed his shoulders so he'd sit, and then opened a drawer from the oversized antique dresser. "Close your eyes."

He did and seconds later something cool and heavy landed on his face, over his forehead and nose, strapped around his head with elastic.

"Okay. Open."

In the reflection of the hand mirror she held in front of him, he saw she'd put a mask on him. It looked like bone with a crackle effect, and a long, curved, pointed nose. A darker shade trimmed each eye-hole. Music notes trailed along the brow, dipping down to the temple. The mask only covered two-thirds of his face, his mouth and chin left uncovered.

He pressed his fingers against the cheekbone, trying to feel what the mask was made of.

"It's a Venetian mask. For Carnivale."

He shifted his eyes. Bella was also wearing a mask, also only covering two-thirds of her face, but hers was black with shiny-maybe gold-ears and whiskers.

"I'm a cat."

"I can see that." Edward couldn't help but laugh. "Where did you get these?"

"I make them. I have loads of them."

"You made these?"

"Papier-mâché."

He took his off to get a closer look. He ran his finger over it, feeling the different textures. When he touched along the music notes, she said, "Decoupaged sheet music."

"These are amazing."

She pushed his chin up so that he closed his mouth. "Look at you. Why didn't you have that look on your face when I gave you that?" She poked the shoe pin she'd attached to him earlier. He'd forgotten all about it. He'd gone for the Chinese food wearing it.

"Hey, now, it's not every day I'm forced to don women's footwear. There needs to be an adjustment period for cross-dressing."

Her laugh was so like he remembered it. "Okay. Do you want to trade then? The shoes for the mask?"

"Not if you expect me to actually wear it."

"I just want you to have something. Something I made."

"You've made loads of these you said? Can I see? Can I pick one?"

Her eyes reflected a flickering candle that didn't exist. They flamed.

"How 'bout if I make you one? Special. What do you want it to be?"

He looked down, turning the mask around in his hands. "I don't know. Can I think about it?

"Of course you can. I'm kind of on a bird kick right now; I'm thinking of doing a hawk one."

Edward listened as Bella described how she got into mask making, the evolution of a series of Sole Windows projects where she put human faces on shoes. Shoe-pins, shoe earrings, shoe drawings, actual shoes.

"I was sort of obsessed with it for a while, after Gram died."

"I'm so sorry, Bella. I wish... well I don't know what to say. Except - I wish I could've been here."

"Me, too." She took her mask off, turning around and hanging it on a wall-hook. "I really, you know. Grappled with it. It was so sudden. In the morning she was frying up French toast - you remember her French toast?"

"Please tell me she left you the recipe."

Bella laughed. "She did. The secret ingredient is, get this. _Marsala wine_."

Edward's brows lifted.

"Anyway. In the morning she was fine. She was pronounced dead before dinnertime. How do you... reconcile that? You know? I didn't know how. I started making some really bad art. Just... horrendous garbage. I call it therapy now, but at the time it was more like-"

She brought her hands up, her fingers stretched out into hooks that she used to claw the air around her body; her eyes slightly glossed despite her smile.

"Drowning?"

She pointed a finger at him. "Exactly. I was drowning in like... explosive awfulness. Anyway..." She waved her hand, "I read once that suffering produces great art. I kept telling myself that. But I don't think it's true. I feel like my art is way better when I'm happy. Happiness inspires me."

Watching her talk, Edward felt a sort of relief, like a glow that lit up his insides.

What was this feeling? It wasn't memory. He didn't remember _this_.

…

Bella stuck the bag of Chinese food in the fridge and they thundered down the stairs, climbed into Edward's hatchback, and drove around the corner to the Co-Op. He carried the shopping basket as Bella piled things into it. Brown eggs, Strauss cream, butter. He stood by, pretending to read the back of a bottle of sandwich spread as Bella asked the guy in the bakery if they had any stale bread. "You know, anything ready for chucking?"

"Feeding ducks?"

"Making French toast," she said with a smile.

"Here. Try this." He reached over to hand her a baguette, pulling his arm back at the last second. "You Esme's girl?"

Bella's smile stretched wider. Edward's peeked out one corner.

"Let me slice that for you. Thick slices."

"Thank you."

As he did, Bella turned to Edward. "We need to get maple syrup, too. I have some, but it's that fake crap. If you want the full-on experience, we need real stuff. Like fresh from the tree - know what I'm saying?"

Back at Bella's house, she pulled a cast iron skillet from the same cabinet Edward remembered Esme storing it in, and started whipping eggs frothy in a big bowl. In no time the bread was sizzling in the pan, butter burbling around it, and Edward was confronted with another deep stab of nostalgia.

Bella dredged the last slice in the remaining egg mixture and then put the bowl on the floor for Mr. Carlisle. He sniffed, recoiled, then made a second pass, licking delicately around its edge.

"Isn't there wine in that?"

She turned to him and relief surged again inside him, just to be back here with her. With her Bella-isms and her smile.

"Are you calling Mr. C. a lush?"

...

Edward trudges toward campus, the sun too bright even behind his sunglasses. He hands over his paper-wrapped bagel to the first homeless guy he passes.

This morning did not go how he'd hoped at all. He wanted to make sure Bella knew that drunk or not, he did not regret what happened. He didn't want her to feel used or upset, or anything a girl might feel the morning after. But before he could say anything, before he could reassure her, she'd already begun backing away.

She didn't need reassurance.

And it isn't until just now, as he's opening the front door to his box of an apartment, that he realizes he'd been _hoping_ reassurance was something she needed.

Eyes aimed at the concrete steps, Edward shakes his head at himself. Having Bella as a childhood friend doesn't grant him any claim to her. She's not the same Bella. He doesn't know this Bella. Not really. Not anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: We want to give a very special thanks to our pre-reader, Thimbles. She reads with such care, comments with such grace, and doesn't hold back when we goof it up. That part of storytelling is just as important as the writing itself, and her contribution makes us, and this story, better. We love you, and your emails out of the blue, saying "HEY - I just thought of something!" Keep 'em coming!_

_And to Songster51, an excellent editor who coaches us on punctuation and grammar, catches our mistakes and suggests improvements. She helps us learn and grow. We appreciate her attention to detail and the fact that she always takes our style-choice into consideration. We continue to revise after she's looked our chapter over, so any flaws you come across are definitely ours. _

_Thank you, also, to you lovely readers. The reception you've given our story has blown us away. You're beyond encouraging and we're grateful for every last one of you._

* * *

Chapter 2

Edward barely feels the heat of the tea, surging from the cup to his hand, as he makes his way to class. The morning bustles with students, some running, some ambling, but he's separated from them all. Walking through a self-imposed darkness, only sure of his direction because of the habit of motion.

In his mind he keeps seeing the basket of chalk tip over, Bella's arm curved over her head as she caught her balance.

There are few feelings in the spectrum of human emotion that are worse than the coupling of heartbreak to humiliation. It won't let him be. He keeps expecting this wave of utter hurt in his chest to break, give way to something else, like anger. But it doesn't. It just keeps heaving there, under his ribs and in his jaw—clenched tight.

He walks right past the door to his Probability Theory class. But where's he going to go? He turns around and pulls the door open, finds a seat and brings out his notebook. The professor drones as Edward tries to follow along, his mind now tormenting him with Bella's hand, resting so pointedly atop the to-go cups.

_Leave_, she was saying. Leave.

That wasn't the direction this was supposed to take. He was sure that she wanted him. Last night, that was how it had seemed. Her hands tugging, her body squirming, her voice asking.

Her voice.

…

"Do you want to?" she asked, her hands in his hair, her words barely more than breath.

_Did he want to?_ He's always wanted to. Somehow, it's always been her. Even when it wasn't. He didn't answer, just brought her face back to his, her gasp eliciting a painful response in him as he kissed her through their mingled breath.

Floating somewhere in his chest was his heart, freed from its moorings, clogging his throat, making it difficult to breathe.

Bella. His hand at her ribs. He was kissing her, touching her. Really, this time.

How many times had he imagined it? In the last couple of weeks, hundreds probably. When he was younger, thousands easily. And more than kissing. He hadn't been sure exactly what that _more_ consisted of back then. But he knew now. And she was offering it to him.

He cupped her jaw, thumb stroking her cheek as they kissed. So soft. Her skin was so soft.

"My heart's beating so fast, Edward. Touch it."

She moved his hand from her face, opening his fingers, laying them against her chest. Almost dead center between her breasts. He could feel the swells on both sides of his palm, but he couldn't feel her heartbeat.

He slid his hand to her breast, the peak jutting into his palm through her tank top.

She inhaled sharply, chest expanding, her head tipping back as she pressed her hips tighter to his body. In just a skirt, it was only her underwear over his jeans. She was so close, never been closer. He ached to unfasten his jeans, to push them out of the way, to feel only Bella. Skin to skin. He could almost feel it already. He wanted to pull her shirt down, see her, kiss the breast that filled his hand. He craved every part of her.

A shriek of a laugh broke through his haze. Clinking bottles, voices, music—all returning to his consciousness, reminding him they weren't alone. In fact, they were probably being watched.

…

But _leave,_ her hand seemed to suggest at the cafe. _There's nothing to talk about,_ her body language said.

If she wants him to leave, he'll leave. He won't call her or go to her house. He'll avoid Jake's, too. He'll throw himself into multivariable calculus until his mind is so filled with numbers that he won't think of her. He spent the last eight years without her—right?

The proximity of her now, though, makes him wonder how he went so long. Being near her is like breathing clean air. Like stretching after a long stillness. Like an orange freshly peeled, aromatic zest stinging his senses, invading his world.

After class, he shifts his bulging backpack over his shoulder and heads off campus to his apartment. On days like this, with the sun so bright, he misses the gray skies over Washington. At the same time, he's thankful to have a real reason to hide his eyes behind sunglasses. He doesn't have to make eye contact with anyone. Nobody can make eye contact with him.

Ensconced in his composition, the uncovered window in front of him, his shared apartment feels bigger. As long as his face is in his laptop he pays no mind to the cramped space at his back. As soon as he leans away to gather his thoughts, the place seems to collapse in on him. A studio apartment, not even big enough for one, but they've crammed in two. Twin beds against either wall, only the space of Edward's desk separates them. Alec's chest of drawers looms large in a tiny corner, while Edward keeps his clothes in rollout drawers under his bed.

About ten feet across from their beds, squished together in a nook Alec generously calls an alcove, is a refrigerator, an oven, and a microwave. Counter-space not much bigger than a dinner plate. The _en suite _bathroom, as Alec had introduced it, is the size of a mousehole. The stall so small, Edward's shoulders skim both sides of it when he showers. He has to keep his shampoo in a bag under his bed, with all the rest of his stuff.

Edward knew all this before he moved in.

Money was too tight, tuition too expensive for him. He'd taken enough loans out for school as it was.

The ad he'd found on Craigslist said it all anyway: _BROKE? Small shared space. Cheap. Must be okay with the green._

Before he'd even looked at the place, Edward had pretty much made up his mind. The rent—the lowest he'd come across—convinced him he could tolerate anything.

All he needed was a place to crash, he'd told himself, and he echoed that thought to Alec when they shook hands on the deal.

But now, a month into it, that tolerance was being tested.

Alec throws the door open, his perpetual herbal scent shrouding him like a fog. That smell never fails to precede him. Edward doesn't turn from his desk. "Don't blaze up while I'm studying."

Alec's constant state of insobriety doesn't seem to affect his studies the way it does Edward's.

"No worries, Bro. I'm chill. I'm chill."

Edward knows the battle's lost before it's begun when Jane's quiet voice chimes in. "He didn't say anything about me, though. Does that mean I can light up?"

"Hey, Jane," Edward says. "Go right ahead." He gestures wide with his arm as if inviting her, as if she isn't intruding in the least.

She looked the same as the first time Alec had introduced them. Same pale hair and eyes as Alec. Same pointed chin. Same wide forehead. Prettier than him, though, no doubt about that. Delicate, like lily of the valley, and just as toxic.

As Edward had moved to shake her hand, Alec hadn't let go of her. She was tiny. Her hand seemed to wilt inside of Edward's, and Alec had immediately folded it up in his own as soon as Edward had released her.

"Two things you need to know about Jane," Alec said. "First: she'll be here a lot. That's not negotiable, nor is it an invitation. Hands off. Second: she wants to get high? She gets high."

Just like then, just like every day, Alec has his arm around Jane now. He pulls a thin joint from his pocket, sticks it in his sister's mouth, and lights it up. The thick, acrid smoke curls up to form cirrus-like clouds against the ceiling. Where it hangs and spreads.

Edward turns back to his book, intent on ignoring them. Alec doesn't give him the chance. He starts talking to Edward's back. This, more than the scent and the swimmy-headed feeling he fights off, annoys him.

_Can't you see I'm trying to work?_

"You know." Alec pauses and Edward can hear him sucking on the joint. When he speaks again, it's constricted, the words squeaking out. "They say marijuana isn't a performance enhancing drug. That's just wrong, man."

Edward closes his laptop and swivels in his chair to face Alec. Jane is lounged on her brother's bed, flipping through _Juxtapo__z_, her hand outstretched, beckoning Alec to pass her the joint. He hits it again before sliding it between her fingers. Edward watches the slow bend of her arm as she brings the joint to her lips; her gaze never leaving the article open on her lap.

"'Cause you see, Ed-man," he sits on the edge of the mattress, "marijuana increases lung capacity. Did you know this? And more oxygen is distinctly correlated to better brain function. This is the truth they don't talk about in D.A.R.E. videos, you know? In fact, there's this study where—don't roll your eyes at me. Just listen, man."

Edward would like to explain to them THC's negative effect on receptors in the cerebral cortex if not for the fact that Alec, himself, could serve as evidence to the contrary.

Edward had occasioned to see his transcripts—perched on the windowsill, doubling as a coaster for Alec's coffee mug. The GPA was surprisingly impressive.

Jane's wispy voice interrupts as she lies back on the bed. "The study was very interesting. There were three groups. A marijuana group, an alcohol group, and a control group."

Alec nods, turning to take the joint. "We need a clip on this, Sister-love. Reach for it on the headboard there, will you?"

Unable to stand it any longer—the smoke, the tension, the bizarre sibling behavior—all of it swelling, filling the room until he's all but trapped against his desk. It's either he gets pushed out the window in front of him, or he walks out the door behind him.

He gathers his books and his laptop, returning them to his backpack. Maybe the library.

Maybe the pizza joint down the street.

Anywhere is better than here.

He glances at Jane and Alec as he exits. They're sitting on Alec's bed, facing each other, legs crossed, knees touching, sharing the joint. Edward doesn't want to know.

He doesn't want to know.

He takes off without a word, hoping his message is clear enough.

He jogs down a flight of stairs, rounding the turn at the second floor, breathing in the clean—or at least, not smoky—air of the hallway.

At the bottom of the steps, Bella's coming up.

For a moment he contemplates turning around and heading back to the apartment. He doesn't get the chance to make that decision as Bella's attention shifts from the basket in her arms up to him.

"Hey!"

Her smile is beaming and beautiful, near knocking him back. He grips the handrail. It's as though the rock is behind him and the hard place just ahead.

"I brought you a pot-pie. You hungry?"

_What the hell?_

"I, uh. Yeah, maybe a little."

"Awesome. Are you going somewhere?" She looks behind her and back at him.

_Maybe slowly, steadily, and painfully insane._

"My - my roommate is a little distracting right now."

"Oh. You should always call me if you need a place to study. Or actually, strike that. Just come over. You don't have to call. You can use my room if people are around. Nobody would go in there. Or Alice. I have a hide-a-key you can use if I'm not there. It's the frog."

"I don't think-"

"Bah. That's just 'cause your head is full of smoke."

He frowns, puzzled, and she laughs.

"You smell like a cannabis club. Come on. Come over if you want."

He does, actually.

And he doesn't.

But maybe this will give him an opportunity to repair some damage, talk to her at least.

"I'll drive us," he says.

"I've got my bike." She aims a thumb over her shoulder.

"We'll throw it in the trunk. What's in the pie?"

"Black beans and pork. It's kind of like a big empanada. Another one of Gram's recipes."

A shadow crosses her eyes as she mentions Esme. But then it's gone—no trace and Edward wonders if he imagined it. "Smells good."

She grins, slipping her arm through his as they walk down the rest of the stairs. Edward's head spins at her touch, how easy it seems to be for her.

"I wanted to ask you something, too."

Edward's heart gives a small kick against his ribs. This is good. Talking would be good.

"I'm heading up a beautification project at East Bay Convalescent Home. We're going to meet on Saturday, probably every Saturday, to kind of, you know… make it nicer. We're going to set up a community garden and stuff."

"That's what you wanted to ask me?"

"You don't have to answer right away." She gives his elbow a tug, leading him away from the building toward the street where her bike is chained to a fence.

Her place isn't empty when they get there. Emily's in the living room with three other guys. Edward recognizes two of the guys on the sofa from the party, but he's never spoken to them. His attention had been on Bella last night.

The other guy with the dark hair sitting on the arm of the sofa, he's never seen before.

Edward hangs back as they all hug Bella, the dark haired guy holding on a little too long.

"You remember Emily from last night," Bella says to Edward.

Emily waves and Edward catches a glimpse of the tattoo on her inner-wrist: Japanese characters which Bella explained translate to her family name, Wakai. Silver barbells pierce her dimples, punctuating her smile. Edward's convinced she cuts her black hair herself, jagged ends, streaks of light here and there, as if she picked up a chunk and painted it. Her dotted stockings have holes at the knees, tears that appear deliberate.

"Marcus, Riley, and Paul," Bella says, pointing to each guy. Then, with a hand to his chest, she says, "This is Edward."

Paul, the overzealous hugger, has the firmest handshake. Edward strengthens his hold. When they let go, he enjoys the way Paul flexes his fingers.

"Hey," Marcus says with a nod of his chin to Edward before flicking his head back, shaking blond hair from his eyes. "You're welcome."

"What?"

Marcus looks away with a smirk. "You're welcome."

"For what?" Edward's not in the mood for cryptic games.

"Don't blame you for not remembering. Your face was practically locked on Bella's. Can't blame you for _that_, either."

Paul chuckles low, like he's trying to stop it but can't.

Edward pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes closed as memory hits him.

They had to borrow a condom.

Rubbing his hand over his face he tries to think of a way out of this place: studies, he's sick, forgotten plans with Alec. He nearly laughs out loud at the last one.

"The condom guy," Emily says. "That's what we call Marcus now."

"Trojan-man," Paul chimes in, and Emily laughs.

"Great," Edward says, looking at Bella.

Shaking her head she says, "Not me."

Edward walks to her, takes her arm and leans in, nudging her against the wall. He lowers his face to hers. "Hey, can we talk? Privately?"

He can see her chest rise as she takes a breath. He swears she's responding to his touch, his close proximity, his face inches from hers.

But then she leads him, not to her bedroom, but into Alice. At least she closes the Wonderland door.

"I know. Those guys." She motions behind her. "They're clowns. I promise, I didn't know they'd be here." Crossing her hands behind her, she leans back, letting her shoulders rest against one of Alice's chaotic walls.

"Forget about them, Bella."

"Right. You said you wanted to talk. Hard to do here sometimes. You should get used to it. My house is rarely empty. Even when it's empty, it isn't empty. According to Emily. You know, she swears this place is haunted? I mean, can you-"

"Ever heard, 'Beware lest you lose the substance by grasping at the shadow?_'_"

"What?"

"Stop sidestepping."

"What do you mean?'

"Stop-stop changing the subject."

"Why couldn't you just say that?" She straightens up, crossing her arms. "And what _is _the subject?"

Can she really not know? He searches her face for any sign of recognition, that she actually does know exactly what he wants to talk about and this demeanor of hers is nothing but bravado. He doesn't find an answer.

"Last night..."

"Yeah. Last night." She sighs. "We were really drunk. So drunk we bummed a condom off Marcus. Not one of my brightest moments, I admit. You have the excuse of not knowing him or his group. Me, I should've known better."

"Bella. Maybe you could have one of your _brighter moments_ right now and understand that I don't want to talk about Marcus or any of _them_."

Her face falls. No, not just her face. All of her. It seems as though the wall behind her is holding her up. She tilts her head, looking into his eyes. Hers glisten, and not due to the sun catching them through the window. He can barely hear her voice. "Edward." She looks away from him, down.

"No." He reaches for her shoulder, pulls back. He shakes his head. He lets his hand land on her shoulder this time. "Hey." He searches for her eyes, can't connect. "I didn't mean it like that. I was - I was playing on your words. I swear. I'm sorry."

Their faces are close. Last night, when they were this close they...

"Look. Let's just do what we came here to do. Eat." She slides out from under his grasp and walks out without closing the door or turning back.

Edward closes his eyes, and leans forward—forehead to wall.

Why can't he form the right words around her? Why is it so hard to just say what he's thinking?

Thoughts. Words. Such a simple concept. But communication is an art. One he's failing at.

It had come natural when they were kids.

_You can never go home again. _

For the first time, Edward understands the full measure of that statement. You can go back, physically-home, as it were-but not really. If nothing else, you're different.

He's changed. She has, too.

He straightens himself up, his eyes on the wall. A little to the right he spots a new quote pasted over the eyes of the rabbit in tiger-stripes. _I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am._ Definitely new, and definitely—for what reason, he can't say—she added it because of him.

When he quoted Descartes to her at Jake's she didn't catch the quote, though she'd said she should have. She didn't know Descartes, at least not the way he does, and here now, on her wall, this quote. And over the eyes of a tiger-striped rabbit? This he should get.

A tiger: strong, virile, overpowering. A rabbit: meek, gentle, but aware. And a quote from Edward's favorite philosopher. There appears to be some obvious thread here, but he can't follow it.

Bella, the girl he knew, was fascinated by symbolism. The woman she's become seems no different, though heedless of it, as if it's a natural, unseen part of her like her organs or her veins. Edward may simply be skimming a pond's surface. Something lurks in the deep.

Tucking these thoughts away in the back of his mind where he can get to them later, he wanders to the living room. Bella's turned away from him, talking animatedly, hands gesturing, with that Paul guy.

Edward clears his throat. "Excuse me."

Bella turns to him. She's wearing one of her masks. It's black, only covering her eye area, like a bandit or Zorro. She's smiling big.

His return smile is weak.

She points at him. "Edward. Food. Now." Linking her arm with his, she leads him into the kitchen.

With her head in line with his shoulder she looks up at him, her eyes round behind the mask. She whispers. "Whatever happens, or happened... I'm glad you're here, Edward."

"Me, too." His voice sounds rough, caught in his throat.

"I mean, I want you to stay. Be here. Not move away like when we were kids."

At fourteen years old, he wasn't upset when his parents had told him they were calling it quits. Their decision hadn't ended the late night arguments—his dad muttering under his breath, his mother belligerent, both of them thinking he was asleep—while he lay, accosted by their vitriol.

His mom had started packing her stuff, his stuff too, but it didn't go anywhere. Not for months. Boxes accumulated in the nook under the stairs and he thought maybe they would stay there forever. He fished books he wanted to read from the bottom of cardboard fruit boxes she had scavenged from Andronico's where she worked. His copy of _Player Piano_ slick on one side with some kind of putrescent banana slime.

And then one day the boxes were being loaded into the back of Grandpop's Silverado. That had scared the crap out of Edward. He thought they would be moving somewhere in town. Which would suck bad enough. But if Grandpop had driven all the way down from Forks...

Edward had argued. But not for very long. His dad had told him he wasn't too old for a hiding. His dad didn't speak much, but when he did, he meant every word he said.

He'd jogged around the corner to find Bella taking apart a wooden labyrinth, the one with the gears that tip the surface this way and that as you try to guide a small marble around the pits and through the maze. Hair knotted even then, she sat on the front lawn, all hunched down with her knees to her chest, holding the thing at an angle as she tried to see into one of the tiny holes. She had a butter knife, a pair of pliers, and a determined expression.

"What… are you doing?"

She smiled, but hadn't looked at him. Instead she wedged the butter knife into a seam in the wood.

"I don't ever play with this thing anymore. I'm going to turn it into something else. But first... ow!"

She dropped the labyrinth on the grass, holding her palm up to her face for inspection, running her index finger over a welt as she said, "The forking thing pinched me."

She pointed at it, giving it a menacing glare. "You're toast now, buddy."

"I'm leaving, Bella."

"When will you be back? You want to have dinner with me and Gram? She's making chili."

He was too old to cry. But he wanted to, in that moment, as she pushed the blade of the knife back into the same seam, prying back and forth, careful of the pinch.

"No. I'm … _leaving_. Like, moving, Bella. With my mom."

Her hands stilled and she looked at him. She didn't ask where, it must have been all over him. His eyes felt wide in his face, his hands wanted to wring something, so they were stuffed in his pockets, fingers fiddling with the lint there.

"Already?"

He gave her a half shrug. "It's summer, so..."

"Can't you stay with your dad? I mean, wouldn't you rather?"

"I don't get a vote, apparently." Bitterness was in his heart, his voice.

"Do _I_ get a vote?"

He laughed sardonically. "Half the time my parents don't even seem to remember you exist. I doubt they're gonna listen to you."

She had stood then, and the bay breeze riffled her hair and the hem of her skirt. "But. You'll come to visit though, right?"

He shrugged again. Not knowing anything.

"When do you leave? Not today?"

Another shrug.

"So that's it. This is your goodbye-visit?"

He nodded, his jaw clenched. He shouldn't have come. He should have let his dad hit him. As humiliating as that would have been, he could have shed some tears in private. He wished Bella would cry. If she cried, then maybe he could. But as long as she stood there looking at him with her big eyes dry, then he wasn't allowed. And if he wasn't allowed, then he needed to get out of there. Because right then, crying was all he wanted to do.

She was his best friend; they had lived around the corner from each other since three weeks before she started kindergarten and he started first grade. And now, she was the only thing he truly loved.

She didn't cry. So he didn't, either. Not until later. Silently, into his pillow. His last night in his room, his last night in Berkeley.

They left right after sunrise, packing the last of their odds and ends into the car. Bella ran around the corner and Edward walked toward her. On her toes, with a hand on his shoulder, her lips met his, wet and firm.

"Goodbye, Edward Masen. Write to me."

Climbing into the car, leaving Berkeley, leaving California, he was able to take something of her with him, on him, in him.

"I'm not going anywhere," Edward says now, Bella's arm still wrapped around his.

She releases him. "I just want us—this—like it is." She touches his chest. "I'm not asking for anything more." Her eyes, peeking out from behind the mask, seem to be watering up again. A few blinks and they're dry.

He swallows. "Okay," he says low and too much like a croak. He clears his throat. "Okay."

He puts an arm around her. Can't help it, can't stop it. Doesn't want to, either.


End file.
